


LA Hallucinations

by nahco3



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: LA era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 16:47:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10925949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: take me into your arms again/ shake me from LA hallucinations





	LA Hallucinations

**Author's Note:**

> this is obviously a product of my imagination and in no way true at all. please don't share this with anyone mentioned in it.

“Aren’t you going to help?” Tommy asks. It’s late, his first night in LA. The city is quieter than he thought it would be. 

“I am helping,” Jon says, lying on Tommy’s bare mattress. “I’m supervising. Besides, I don’t know how you like your t-shirts organized.”

“By color,” Tommy tells him, dumping a pile of clothes onto the bed next to him. “So get to work.”

“That was a joke,” Jon says, rolling over onto his back. His shirt rides up and Tommy can see a pale slice of his stomach. He looks away. “I didn’t know you were actually anal-retentive enough to organize your closet.” 

“Lovett,” Tommy says, sitting down on the floor. He wishes he remembered which box he packed his sheets in so he could just go to bed and deal with this in the morning. 

“Ok, ok,” Jon says, getting off the bed and coming over to paw through the open box Tommy abandoned. “Honestly, how many plaid shirts do you own?” 

“A lot,” Tommy says. He lies down on the floor. It seems easier than staying upright. He’s tired from making the drive down the 5 on his own, tired from trying to decide how to arrange the furniture, tired from opening boxes. “I’m old.” 

“Yeah, well, the ravages of time come for us all,” Jon says. “I can recommend a good moisturizer. Tommy, how on earth did you organize these fucking boxes?”

“I didn’t,” Tommy says, looking at the ceiling. He lets his vision blur. “I kind of left in a hurry.” 

Jon reaches over and pats his thigh. “If you keep looking that tragic, no one will fuck you,” he says. Favs and Emily had been knowingly, quietly kind when Tommy had said he was moving down a little earlier than expected, to WeHo and not out to Venice. Jon had been, well, Jon. 

Tommy lies there and listens to Jon dig through his stuff, throwing clothes aside, making fun of his books. The worst part is not feeling anything but the old, familiar ache, the one that nothing but distance helped, and even then, not very much. It would be so much better if he could feel anything else.

“Sheets!” Jon says, joyfully. “Oh, happy day. Come on, get up, I’m too short to make a bed on my own.” He nudges Tommy in the side with his foot and shoves the piles of clothes onto the floor. 

Tommy pushes himself upright, helps Jon smooth the sheets, tucks in the corners on his side of the bed. Across from him, Jon smiles, satisfied with his work. Something flips in Tommy’s chest. 

“I’ll come by tomorrow and help finish up,” Jon says, surveying the mess he’s made. “Now, go to bed.” 

Tommy tosses Jon the spare key, but Jon doesn’t catch it.

“I can’t believe this is how you thank me for my free labor,” Jon says. “I’m filing a complaint.”

“Pretty sure I’m your boss and I don’t care,” Tommy says, leaning against the door frame. Jon flicks him off and heads out into the night. Tommy locks the door and then sits in his empty apartment for a long, long time. 

\--

He wakes up before his alarm. Somewhere in the pile of clothes on the floor he finds a pair of running shorts and an old Kenyon lax shirt. He runs in the hills, the sun just rising, the ocean in the distance obscured by smog. There aren’t that many people out yet, just him and the dust, a few wildflowers that haven’t died yet. 

At home, none of his dishes are unpacked and the only thing in the fridge is pizza from last night. He puts some protein powder and some water in his Nalgene and shakes it to mix it. He leans against the counter, trying to find the energy to drink it.

The door opens, then closes. “Thomas,” Jon calls, “I’m here to suffer!”

“In the kitchen,” Tommy tells him. Jon comes in, backpack over one shoulder, ceramic cup off coffee in one hand, take-out bag in the other. His hair is rumpled with sleep. He grabs the Nalgene out of Tommy’s hands. “Christ, what is this?”

“My breakfast?” Tommy says. 

“God, I let you live in the Bay Area for two minutes and you turn into some Soylent-drinking jerk-off brogrammer,” Jon tells him. 

“You know, most people say good morning,” Tommy says, taking the Nalgene back and taking a sip. Jon’s right; it’s pretty bad. 

Jon steps back and looks Tommy up and down. Tommy flushes -- he knows how he looks, sweaty, skin blotchy pink, bags under his eyes. 

“Good morning,” Jon says lasciviously, looking up at Tommy through his eyelashes, his lips slightly parted. “Now stop drinking that crap, I got you an egg sandwich.”

\--

He settles in faster than he thought he would. He already knows his way around LA, has Favs and Jon and Emily to drag him out to dinner, finds a couple of running routes he likes, joins a gym. It’s warmer and flatter than San Francisco but spring feels the same -- too dry, greyer than you’d think California would be. 

He gets used to going to bed alone again, to waking up alone in the middle of the night, heart pounding. It’s easier, honestly, because he can walk around his apartment, drink some water. Take a benadryl, put a meditation on his phone and not have to worry about waking anyone else up, about being a burden. 

The only thing he can’t get used to is Jon, all the time, everywhere, again. In his house and at work, touching his shoulder and texting him fifty times a day, lying on his couch making Tommy bring him food, the curve of his thighs in the tight jeans he wears now. He should be used to it but it’s something he could never build up a tolerance to, the way his body reacts to Jon, the way his chest gets tight. He’s not 29 anymore, though. He tries not to be stupid about it. 

\--

“Pundit’s fat,” Jon says, flopping disconsolately onto Favs’ couch. His legs are splayed wide, arms above his head. Tommy grinds his thumbnail into his thigh and looks back down at the email he’s trying to write. “I’m the worst.” 

“We already knew that,” Favs says, not looking up from his laptop. 

“I’m supposed to put her on a diet but how can I? She gives me puppy eyes. She literally gives me puppy eyes. I can’t resist that.” 

“I could take her running,” Tommy says, surprisingly himself. 

Jon looks over at him. “Would you?” 

“It’s not a big deal,” Tommy says. “I’ll have her running Iron Men in no time. Iron Women. Iron Dogs?” 

“Iron Dogs,” Favs says. 

“You’ll be her favorite uncle,” Jon tells Tommy, rolling his hips up so he can dig his phone out of his pocket. 

“Great,” Tommy says, a beat too late.

\--

He swings by Jon’s the next morning, halfway through his run. He figures that Pundit probably doesn’t want to do hill repeats with him. He rings the doorbell.

Jon answers, in just his boxers, draped in a blanket. It doesn’t cover his thighs and Tommy looks down at them helplessly for just a second. They’re as pale as ever, and he wonders if Jon still likes being bitten high up where the skin is so smooth.

“You look like Gandalf,” he says, clenching his hands into fists. 

“I’ll take it,” Jon tells him. “Pundit, come, your personal trainer is here.” 

Tommy takes Pundit on an easy loop through the neighborhood. She bounds along beside him at first, then gradually trails behind him until he has to stop. 

“What’s wrong, girl?” 

She sits and looks at him, wagging her tail, her tongue lolling out of her mouth. “You tired already?” he asks her, kneeling down to pat her head. She smiles her doggy smile up at him and tries to lick his chin.

“Just another mile, ok?” he tells her. “Then we can go home to see your dad.” 

\--

Jon has a second cup of coffee waiting for him, so it would be rude not to stay. Tommy makes them both eggs because the thought of eating sugary cereal after a run makes him want to throw up a little bit.

“She literally lay down on the sidewalk,” Tommy tells Jon. “I had to carry her the last half mile. Your dog is embarrassing.”

“She’s like me after too many shots, aren’t you, girl,” Jon says, beaming down at Pundit. “Remember when you had to carry me home from that party because I refused to get my sneakers wet?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “You said I had to hold you like a koala bear and you spoke in an Australian accent the whole time.” His remembers Jon’s legs wrapped around his waist, Jon’s arms around his neck, his hand on Jon’s ass, Jon whispering insane shit into his ear. They’d fucked on the couch that night.

Maybe Jon’s remembering the same thing because he goes red, just for a second. Tommy looks down, the warmth in his chest extinguished. He knows how Jon feels about the two of them.

Be normal, Tommy thinks. He can’t look back up at Jon. He makes himself. Jon’s looking at him, his face tight and miserable. Tommy doesn’t want to know how much of what he’s feeling is showing on his face. It’s not Jon’s fault that Tommy never got over him. It’s not Jon’s fault he hates remembering what -- what they were.

“I have to go,” Tommy says, and bolts.

\--

He’s late to Favs’ house that morning. He thinks he’s under control until he’s back on Jon and Favs’ block and then, suddenly, he isn’t. He makes it two streets over before he sits down on the curb, head in his hands. Breathe in for seven, hold for seven, out for seven. Nothing’s changed between him and Jon -- everything’s the same as yesterday and the day before and seven years ago. Breathe, hold, out. He can walk into Favs’ living room and see Jon and not think about how he put that look on Jon’s face this morning. Breathe. He can make it through a day and not think about Jon, in Tommy’s bed, pushing away, his lips wet from kissing, saying _I don’t think we should keep doing this_.

Tommy, reaching out for Jon but Jon already standing up. Saying _please_ , saying _what did I do wrong, we can make this work._ A laugh that was more of a sob, saying, _Jon, please don’t be the second person to leave me in six months._

Jon saying, _this was a mistake._

Someone touches his shoulder and he flinches. 

“I’m sorry,” a woman says, jumping back from him. “I just. Are you ok?” 

Tommy wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “I am. Sorry.”

“Is there someone I should call?” she asks.

“No,” Tommy says, because there isn’t. “I’m really fine. Thank you.”

“Ok,” she says, “if you’re sure.” She walks down the block and Tommy sits there, trying not to think about Jon’s face when he had to remember being with Tommy. 

His phone buzzes; it’s Favs.

_Where are you dude?_

_Sorry,_ he texts back. _Some lady stopped to talk to me. Be there in a sec._

\--

They go out for drinks that Saturday night to celebrate getting another sponsor. Jon insists on picking the bar, which means they go to this terrible tiki bar on Sunset with no parking where the drinks are basically rubbing alcohol and sugar. 

It’s tiny, and even though it’s not that late yet, there’s only one table free, with two chairs. 

“I can stand,” Tommy says.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Jon says, “we’ll strain our necks looking up at you. Favs can stand.”

“Hey,” Favs says, “I think you should stand, Lovett, so you can be at eye level with me and Tommy for once.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jon says. “I’m tired from carrying this company on my back for weeks. You both can stand.”

“Tell you what,” Favs says. “Tommy and I sit. I’ll flip a coin, heads you sit on my lap, tails you sit on Tommy’s.”

“No,” Tommy says, downing half his drink in one sip. It tastes like fucking cough syrup.

“Ok,” Jon says. It’s tails. 

For a second, Tommy feels viciously satisfied as Jon goes pale, then the rest of his brain catches up and he mostly feels like his chest has been crushed. He sits down, pushing the chair back so there’s room for Jon. 

Jon sits down carefully, as if Tommy’s an antique chair he’s afraid he’ll break. He might be right. Tommy finishes his drink. Jon’s sitting up too straight, badly balanced near Tommy’s knees. It can’t be comfortable for him.

“Come on, Lovett,” Tommy says, “I don’t bite.” 

Jon shoots him a look over his shoulder -- quick and mercifully unreadable in the dark of the bar -- and scoots back, carefully. Tommy holds onto his elbow to steady him, just cupping it. His hands could span Jon’s forearm. Without thinking, he swipes his thumb against the inside of his elbow. It’s soft.

Jon settles back against him, his legs spread so he’s straddling Tommy’s thigh. He smells the way Tommy remembers. Tommy drops his hands to his side. He can’t dig his fingers into Jon’s thighs, can’t pull Jon back more firmly against him, can’t roll his hips up. Can’t kiss the side of his neck or nuzzle behind his ear.

Favs is talking to him. Right. 

“Tommy?”

“Uh, sorry, what?” Tommy says.

“I said, I know this girl who works at Snapchat, I could give her your number.” 

On Tommy’s lap, Jon teeters, and Tommy puts a hand on his waist to steady him. 

“Because that worked out so well last time,” Jon says, voice sharp. 

“What are you talking about Lovett?” Favs asks. Tommy powerfully wants another drink.

“That reporter you set him up with in DC, the last time he got dumped.” Jon’s back is tense against Tommy. “She tried to like, steal his phone or something when he was in the bathroom.” 

He barely remembers the girl Jon is talking about. After everything with Katie had blown up, he’d moved in with Jon and, well. Favs had set him up with a few girls that winter and Tommy had gotten drinks with one or two of them to get Favs off his case. He’d drink half a beer, fake a work emergency and go home to Jon. It had been so easy, then.

“I think I have some shit to work out first,” Tommy says, trying to end the argument. 

“Fair,” Favs says, accepting that with the equanimity of someone who has never been dumped. 

“I went on a date yesterday with a guy who was pitching a true crime TV show but had never heard of _Serial_ ,” Jon says, suddenly.

“Sounds like your dream man,” Tommy says, proud of himself for keeping his voice even. 

\--

He keeps taking Pundit for runs. He has Jon’s keys so he stops ringing the doorbell, because Jon doesn’t like getting woken up early. Pundit’s getting better, can handle the hills now, even, prancing along at his side. During water breaks they work on a couple of tricks. 

People stop him sometimes, to pet her and talk to him. Girls and guys, good-looking and fit in their expensive athleisure. They’re all friendly. Favs would tell him to give someone his number but Tommy never does. 

“Does your dad use you to pick up guys?” he asks Pundit, stopping to scratch behind her ears. She jumps up on him, licking his face and knocking him off balance. “I know, I know, don’t ask questions I don’t want to know the answers to.” 

He and Pundit walk the last few blocks back to Jon’s. It’s a good cooldown for them both. The sun is up now, traffic starting to pick up. Tommy opens Jon’s door, kneeling down to unclip Pundit’s leash, when he hears Jon’s moan.

It’s unmistakable. Tommy spent five months fucking Jon, sucking him off, learning his body and his reactions. He still dreams about it sometimes. Another moan, not one of Jon’s, and then Jon’s laugh. Tommy’s stomach clenches. Pundit makes a small hurt noise and Tommy realizes how hard he was gripping her. Self-loathing wells up in him. 

He shuts the door, locks it, walks to the curb. He still has Jon’s laugh ringing in his ears. The world around him has gone white. Breathes. Feels his breath in the back of his throat, filling his lungs. His chest rises and falls. Jon isn’t his; he never was.

\--  
Work is -- fine. Favs leaves to go record the pod with Dan, leaving Tommy and Jon alone together. Jon has his headphones in and the little wrinkle between his eyebrows that means he’s actually writing. Tommy tries to concentrate. 

“Stop staring at me, it’s creeping me out,” Jon says, pulling his headphones down around his neck.

“Sorry,” Tommy says, looking back down at his laptop. He can still feel Jon’s eyes on him though, so he looks back up. 

“What?” Jon says. 

“Nothing,” Tommy says. 

“Because you have that look like you want to say something but you’re too much of a repressed _Ethan Frome_ character to say it,” Jon says. 

“It isn’t important,” Tommy refreshes Twitter. God, what a fucking mess. “Did you see this --”

“Don’t change the subject, Thomas. I need to know."

“I heard you having sex this morning,” Tommy tells him. 

Jon starts. “And?” 

“That’s. You asked if I had something to say. I said it. Now you know.” Tommy feels himself going red. Jon closes his laptop. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Jon says, “I gave you the keys to my house and it’s not like I had a sock hanging on the door or something. Plus it’s nothing you haven’t heard before.” Jon pulls his knees in towards his chest, so that he’s sitting folded up on the chair. He’s a little flushed, his curls freshly washed and still damp.

“Are you.” Tommy makes himself ask, because he’s been wondering all day, the question sitting in him, festering, making his heart pound. “Dating him?”

“No,” Jon says. “It’s a Grindr thing.” 

“Great,” Tommy says. What an inane fucking thing to say. He looks down at Favs’ perfect dining room table. There’s a seasonal centerpiece, probably one that Emily and Jon picked out. He wants to throw something across the room. 

“Don’t worry,” Jon says, “your dick was bigger than his.” 

“Then fuck me,” Tommy says. He feels like his body belongs to someone else. 

Jon’s mouth opens but no sound comes out. He closes it again and scrubs a hand across his face. Tommy sits there in the silence, feeling like an idiot for putting himself through this again.

“Like a sexy dogwalker thing?” Jon says, finally. “I can’t afford rent at doggie day care so I like, make it up to you with my big mouth?”

Tommy laughs despite himself. “Sure,” he says, “if that’s what you want.” 

“I’ll think about it,” Jon says, looking down at his hands. 

\--

But he doesn’t say anything else about it. Tommy goes running with Pundit, he works, he writes emails and looks at Jon across the table and does his best to tell jokes and stay hopeful. He goes home, drinks two fingers of whiskey and jerks off. He lies in bed and tries to meditate. He’s pretty sure the country is falling apart. Tommy Vietor: lonely disaster, what else is new.

It’s Saturday morning and he’s given up on sleeping. He walks to Jon’s house to get Pundit, the sky barely turning blue behind the silhouettes of the palm trees, the air still cold. Jon’s house is warm and quiet. The door to Jon’s bedroom is shut.

“Hey girl,” he calls from the front hall, and Pundit comes running to him, her nails clicking on the floor, her whole body wagging with delight. She presses her nose to his cheek. 

“Ready to go for a run with your Uncle Tommy?” he asks, and she jumps, happily, as he gets the leash. He should get a dog, but he doesn’t want one. He wants this dog, this house. 

“Shhh,” he tells her, “don’t wake up your dad.”

They run for a long time, until the sun comes up and Tommy’s thoughts have slowed down. On their way home they stop by a bakery, and Tommy buys a couple of croissants. The lady behind the counter gives Pundit a homemade dog treat, which is almost a justification for what Tommy’s doing.

They walk back to Jon’s together, Pundit running ahead on her leash to sniff under bus stops and then looking back at Tommy, offended that he’s not keeping up. 

“Maybe I’m tired,” he tells her, “maybe I don’t have your insatiable lust for half-eaten burritos.” She gives him a soft woof. 

He lets her in at Jon’s. Jon’s door is still closed and Tommy thinks, what’s the harm. He’ll just check that Pundit has enough water in her dish. He follows her into the kitchen. Jon’s house is messy and lived in, and through the filtered morning light it reminds him of home, growing up and being the first one up in the morning, eating breakfast by himself before morning lacrosse practice. 

Pundit has plenty of water in her dish. She makes sad noises at him, so he feeds her breakfast. She eats it and pads into the living room to go back to sleep. Tommy puts one of the croissants on the table. He’s looking around for a pen to write Jon a note with, when Jon comes in. 

“Tommy,” he says, holding onto the doorframe. He’s wearing a pair of shorts that only make it halfway to his knees and a Williams hoodie, still disoriented by sleep. “What?”

“I gave Pundit breakfast,” Tommy says, “and I got you a croissant.”

“Fuck,” Jon says. He tugs at his shorts then puts his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. He still has crease marks on the side of his face from his pillow. 

“Sorry,” Tommy says, “I’ll go.”

“Stop doing so much nice shit for me,” Jon tells him, and pushes him back against the counter. Tommy goes, offering no resistance. “Stop coming to my house with your shirt stuck to your chest and your fucking arms -- ” Jon goes up on his tiptoes and kisses Tommy and Tommy leans down for it, wraps his arms around Jon and pulls him in. He forgot, wanting Jon, how intense it was to have him.

Jon pulls back. “Oh, Mr. Dog Walker, how am I ever going to pay you back for this expensive breakfast pastry.” 

Tommy’s still dazed by the kiss. He leans down and kisses Jon again, then a third time before Jon pulls back. 

“You say, ‘I’m going to fill you up with my come and you’re going to like it.’” Jon tells him.

“What kind of terrible porn do you watch,” Tommy says. His hands are around Jon’s waist. Fuck it. He picks him up, gets a thigh between his legs and hefts him onto the counter. “I’m not saying that.” Now Jon’s at the perfect height for Tommy to bite at his collar bones, to run his hands along his thighs and up under his shorts. 

He gets himself between Jon’s legs. “Sweatshirt off,” he says, running one hand up Jon’s legs, his thumb rubbing circles on Jon’s inner thigh. This is just a hook-up, Tommy’s just the replacement for some guy on Grindr, but that’s ok. Tommy knows Jon better, Tommy will make this so good for him. 

“Authoritative, I like it,” Jon says, pulling off his sweatshirt. “Good work, Vietor.” Jon looks so good, solid and soft and warm. 

“God,” Tommy says, and kisses him where his neck meets his shoulder, uses his teeth a little. He wants to leave a mark. One hand is inside Jon’s shorts and he leaves it there, just resting against Jon’s hip, but he brings the other one up to tilt Jon’s head back, give himself a better angle. 

Jon’s breath is coming in desperate pants and Tommy can feel his hips pushing upwards, searching for friction. His hands are under Tommy’s shirt, he’s dragging his nails down Tommy’s back and the promise of it makes something uncurl inside of him.

“I thought you were going to fuck me,” he says, digging his heels into Tommy to pull him closer, “make me take it,” he gasps, sharply, when Tommy starts kissing up his neck, “as payback.”

Tommy doesn’t know why Jon’s keeping up this bit, doesn’t care, too lost in the feel of him. “After I suck you off,” he says. God, Jon’s thighs are wrapped around his waist, Tommy wants them caging him in so much. It’s insane how much he wants Jon, every part of him.

“No,” Jon says, hands off of Tommy, leaning back. “No, stop.”

Tommy takes three steps back like he’s been pushed. 

“Jon?” he asks. “Jon, did I.” He makes himself say it. “Hurt you?”

“Jesus, no,” Jon says, but he pulls his sweatshirt back on, pulls the hood down. He’s hard but that doesn’t mean anything.

“Did someone else?” Tommy asks. It’s been a long time -- Jon never said but -- “We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.” 

“This isn’t an after-school special,” Jon says, sharply. “I don’t want you to make out with me in my kitchen.” 

“You kissed me,” Tommy says. He knows it isn’t an excuse. He should have known. Jon never wanted him, really. It hurts worse this time, having that hope taken away, but that’s Tommy’s problem.

“I wanted you to bend me over and fuck me, not treat me like your fucking replacement girlfriend,” Jon says.

“I just wanted,” Tommy says. He’s not like Jon, he can’t just say these things. “I just wanted to make you feel good.” 

“Well, you don’t,” Jon says. Tommy feels like he’s been kicked in the solar plexus. He. Ok. He makes himself take it. Some distant part of his mind is amazed he’s still standing.

“It doesn’t make me feel good to be your rebound after you get dumped by another hot, brilliant woman when we both know you’re going to end up getting married and having little Thomas Vietor the Fifths. It fucking sucked before and I had to move across the country but I like my house and I’m not selling it and I’m not doing this with you again.” 

Tommy stares at him. Jon’s eyes are dark and his cheeks are pink and his mouth is lush from where Tommy bit it. He’s so angry he’s glowing with it. 

“Don’t sell your house,” Tommy tells him, taking a step closer.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Jon snaps. “So stop buying me breakfast and taking care of my dog or stop offering to fuck me.” 

Tommy takes another step closer. He reaches out and puts a hand on Jon’s knee, careful. Jon watches him. 

“I don’t want to stop,” Tommy says. “I didn’t want to stop before and I don’t want to now. You’re not a rebound. I’m not going to get married and have Thomas Vietor the Fifths.”

Jon jerks his knee away from Tommy’s hand. “Oh, so you never got over me? You yearn for me every fucking day? Give me a break. Now you’re going to tell me you’ve loved me since Obama’s first term.” He snorts. 

“I have,” Tommy says, helplessly. 

“What the fuck,” Jon yells, so loud that Pundit wakes up with a bark and comes running in. “You have not!”

“I have,” Tommy says. He feels lightheaded, like the world is spinning around him and Jon is the only fixed point. Jon knows. His legs are shaking, all of a sudden, and he has to sit down.

Pundit comes over to him, nudging his cheek with her nose, concerned. He focuses on the feeling of her fur, the warmth of her. The floor is cold underneath him. He curls in on himself. He’s safe, he’s ok. He told Jon he loved him.

“You can’t just tell people that,” Jon says, jumping off the countertop. He crouches on the floor next to Tommy but Tommy can’t make himself look at him. “Dropping the whole, ‘I’ve been in love with you for almost a decade. I’d die for you. Take this antique ring that belonged to my great-grandmother’ thing.”

Tommy bites his lip. “Jon,” he says, “please. Stop talking.”

“I mean, this is a pretty big thing to just dump on me before I’ve even had a cup of coffee like, oh by the way --”

“Jon,” Tommy begs, “if you’ve ever.” He feels like his throat is closing up. “Cared about me, stop, ok. We don’t have to talk about this anymore, it’s fine. I’ll go and you can just. We can just.” 

He feels Jon settle against his side. A part of his wants to lean into the contact and a part of him knows that’ll just make all this worse. 

“Tommy,” Jon says. “You just took me by surprise. People don’t usually like me that much, let alone fall in love with me.”

“I wonder why,” Tommy manages to joke. 

“I do, too,” Jon says. “Since the first term. My great-grandmother had to sell all her jewelry to escape Europe but other than that, yeah.”

Tommy finds the courage to look over at Jon, not comprehending. Jon’s looking back at him, eyes wide. They stare at each other, the hum of the refrigerator the only noise.

“Don’t make me say it,” Jon says, soft, and Tommy kisses him, both hands cupping Jon’s face. Jon crawls into his lap, clumsy and unwilling to break the kiss and Pundit barks, confused. 

“God, that fucking dog,” Jon says, his forehead pressed to Tommy’s. Tommy kisses him again. He runs his hands down Jon’s arms, intertwines their fingers. Another kiss. He can’t breathe from kissing Jon. He doesn’t want to. 

“Obama’s first term,” he says, wonderingly. He kisses Jon’s fingers, his neck, his mouth again. 

“Before you did, probably,” Jon says. “So there. You think you’re so tragic and romantic but it just goes to show, I’m better.” 

“I love you,” Tommy says, and pulls him in close.

**Author's Note:**

> my eternal gratitude as always to [threeturn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/threeturn/pseuds/threeturn) and [veryspecificfantasies](https://veryspecificfantasies.tumblr.com) for reading this over for me and making it so much better. they're incredible and I don't deserve them. thanks also to everyone else in this fandom for being truly so much fun and helping me cope with the nightmare that is politics right now. title is from Carly Rae Jepsen, our Lady of TommyJon.
> 
> you can always find me on [tumblr](https://baking-soda.tumblr.com), screaming.


End file.
